III. Read the end of the story and retell it using the following verb-postpositive phrases wherever possible. Reread the whole story and discuss the title:

to sit up; to be up to; it's up to you; to bring about; to look away; to hold out; to pick up; to tear up; to drive about; to go out; to pace about; to spring up; to put up with; to put away; to take in; to fold up

SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLS

(continued)

"Who is it from?" a"sked Nevada, pulling a button of her glove.

"Well, really," said Barbara with a smile. "I can only guess. The envelope has that queer little thing in one corner that Gilbert calls a palette."

"I wonder what he's writing me about," remarked Nevada listlessly, still struggling with the buttons of her glove. "Oh, it'll be midnight before I get these gloves off! Open the letter, will you, Barbara, and read it to me."

"Why, dear, it's for you, you wouldn't wish any one else to read it, of course."

Nevada raised her steady, calm, sapphire eyes from her gloves.

"Nobody writes me anything that everybody mightn't read," she said. "Go on, Barbara. Maybe Gilbert wants us to go out in his car again tomorrow."

"Well, dear," she said, "I'll read it if you want me to."

She opened the envelope, and read the letter with swift-travelling eyes; read it again, and cast a quick, shrewd glance at Nevada, who, for the time, seemed to consider gloves as the world of her interest.

For a quarter of a minute Barbara looked at Nevada with a strange steadfastness; and then a smile, a very small smile, flashed like an inspired thought across her face.

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Barbara seemed to hesitate.

"Really, Nevada," she said, with a little show of embarrassment, "you shouldn't have insisted on my opening this. I'm sure it wasn't meant for any else to know."

"Then read it aloud," Nevada said. "Since you've already read it, what's the difference?"

"Well," said Barbara, "this is what it says: 'Dearest Nevada - Come to my studio at twelve o'clock to-night. Do not fail.' "

Barbara rose and dropped the note in Nevada's lap. "I'm awfully sorry," she said, "that I knew. It isn't like Gilbert. There must be some mistake. Just consider that I am ignorant of it, will you, dear? I must go upstairs now, I have such a headache. I'm sure I don't understand the note. Perhaps Gilbert has been dining too well, and will explain. Good night!"

When Nevada heard Barbara's door close upstairs, she ran swiftly to the front door, and let herself out into the snowstorm.

White with snow she reached Gilbert's studio and knocked.

Gilbert opened the door. He had a crayon pencil in one hand and a pipe in his mouth. The pipe dropped to the floor.

"Am I late?" asked Nevada. "1 came as quick as 1 could. Uncle and me were at the theatre this evening. Here I am, Gilbert. You wanted me to come and I came. You said so in your letter. What did you send for me for?"

"You read my letter?" inquired Gilbert.

"Barbara read it for me, I saw it afterwards. It said: 'Come to my studio at twelve to-night and do not fail.' I thought you were sick, of course, but you don't seem to be."

"Aha," said Gilbert irrelevantly. "I'll tell you why I asked you to come, Nevada. I want you to marry me immediately - tonight. What's a little snowstorm? Will you do it?"

"You might have noticed that I would, long ago," said Nevada. "And I rather like the snowstorm idea, myself. I surely would hate one of those flowery church noon-weddings. Gilbert, I didn't know you had grit enough to propose in this way. Let's shock them!"

"Oh, Nevada! I'm the happiest man in the world!" Gilbert exclaimed. "By the way, what did you do with the letter J sent you today?"

"I've got it here," said Nevada,-pulling it out from under her cloak.

Gilbert drew the. letter from the envelope and looked it over carefully. Then he looked at Nevada thoughtfully.

"Didn't you think it rather queer that I should ask you to come to my studio at midnight?" he asked.

"Why, no," said Nevada, rounding her eyes. "Not if you needed me. Out West when a friend sends you a hurry call we always get there to help him. So 1 didn't mind."

Gilbert rushed into another room and came back burdened with two warm overcoats.

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"Put this raincoat on," he said, holding it for her. "We've got a quarter of a mile to go to get to the church."

He began to struggle into a heavy coat.

"Oh, Nevada," he said, "just look at the headlines on the front dage of that evening paper on the table, will you? It's about your section of the West, and I know it will interest you."

He waited a full minute, pretending to find trouble in the getting on of his coat, and then turned. Nevada had not moved. She was looking at him with strange and pensive directness.

"I was going to tell you," she said, "anyhow, before you - before we - before - well, before anything. Dad never gave me a day of schooling. I never learned to read or write ..."

IV

When Mrs. and Mr. Gilbert Warren were returning home in a closed carriage, after the ceremony, Gilbert said:

"Nevada, would you really like to know what I wrote you in the letter tonight?"

"Fire away!" said the girl.

"Word for word," said Gilbert, "it was this: 'My dear Miss Warren - You were right about the flower. It was a hydrangea, and not a lilac.' "

"All right," said Nevada. "But let's forget it. The joke's on Barbara, anyway!"

(After 0'Henry)

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REVISION II

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT